


Plans, Pans and Potted Plants

by sassy_cissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Bickering, Domesticity, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Established Relationship, M/M, Oblivious boyfriend, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Sassy Pansy Parkinson, dramatic Draco being dramatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_cissa/pseuds/sassy_cissa
Summary: Draco knows just what he wants for his birthday this year. The question is: does Harry?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 259
Collections: Squee Squad Birthday Gifts





	Plans, Pans and Potted Plants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timothysboxers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timothysboxers/gifts).



> Timothyboxers - Happy Birthday. I hope this silly little thing brings a smile to you on your birthday. One day I will bake you a cake for your day, but until then...
> 
> So many thanks to oldenuf2nb for always being there and making everything I do so much better. You rock!! To Tami for listening to me wibble and grouse, for looking this over and for being all-around an amazing friend. To Em - thanks for the last minute beta and brit-pick. You're also one in a million.

Draco hurried into the breakfast room, making certain Harry was still in the kitchen finishing their food. He carefully unfolded _The Daily Prophet_ and strategically arranged it so when he set it down, the article he ~~wanted~~ needed Harry to notice would be in view. 

Draco peered at the grainy image just under the fold. He squinted, wondering if that would help bring the terrible image into focus. It didn't, and with a sigh, he set the paper at the perfect angle so the photo and article would be the first thing Harry saw when he sat at the table. Smiling to himself, he wandered out to the kitchen.

Leaning in for a quick kiss, Draco sniffed at the rashers of bacon frying. "Breakfast almost ready?" he asked, pulling the toast from the toaster and slathering it with butter. Draco had always enjoyed breakfast, but since he and Harry had got together a few years before, it had easily become his favourite meal of the day. 

"Just plating up the tomato and eggs." Harry waved his wand and the eggs, followed by perfect, even tomato slices sailed from the pan and onto the plates waiting on the sideboard. Another quick flick and the bacon joined the eggs. Grabbing a plate in each hand, Harry moved to the table. He called over his shoulder. "Bring the tea service. It should be steeped just how you like it."

Draco followed behind, a bit more slowly than he normally would have. He wanted Harry to see the article before he came into the room. 

"Oh brilliant," Harry called out. 

Draco smiled, feeling quite pleased with himself. It seemed his hints for what Harry should _surprise_ Draco with for his birthday were going to work this year. 

All his joy turned to total exasperation when he saw Harry sitting at the table, the paper open to the latest Quidditch scores. 

"Thanks for grabbing the paper. The Falcons played the Cannons last night…" He paused for a moment scanning the page. "Yes!" He shot a triumphant arm in the air. "They positively trounced the Cannons by nearly two hundred points." He bit into his bacon. "I can't wait to see Ron. The numpty was fool enough to bet a Galleon on the game."

Harry was so enthralled with the details of the game he failed to notice that Draco was pushing his food around the plate, suddenly unenthusiastic about the breakfast he'd been looking forward to.

oo00oo

Draco stood in front of the curio cabinet in the sitting room, carefully hand dusting a delicate figurine of a baby dragon. Starting with his birth, his mother procured a handcrafted Goblin-made crystal dragon each year to mark his birthday. Cripnock, a legendary talent in the Goblin world, was the only one known to handcraft crystal dragons and magical animals. His dragons were always limited to a casting of fifty and had always been in ridiculous demand. Somehow, Draco's mother had made an arrangement with Cripnock and always received one of the first pieces in a creation, usually one of the lots numbered one through five. That is, until Cripnock's untimely death about the time Draco turned twenty-five. Cripnock had just begun casting, what was now known as, his last piece. Only five had been created before he'd passed, and five years later it was the one piece Draco coveted. No one had seen any of the intricate sculptures after Cripnock's death was announced – it was as if they simply vanished. There was wild speculation and even wilder stories, but the coveted dragons were gone. Last year two of them surfaced. Both were owned by an American wizard, and he'd had no plans to sell them.

Then two weeks ago, out of nowhere, there was a small announcement in _The Prophet_. The American had passed away and his family was putting his entire collection of Cripnock pieces up for auction. There would be no pre-sale and each piece would be sold individually. Draco had nearly fainted when he read that the family was breaking up what could possibly be the only collection with every dragon. But it also meant he finally had a chance to obtain the one piece that had eluded him for all these years… _Blue Dragon Mother with White Baby_.

Of course, Draco had never seen more than a photo of the piece and even that wasn't a very good one, but he'd heard about it. How the mother curled her tail around the baby to keep it close, the baby's white wings iridescent against the blue of the mother's. And its details were supposedly Cripnock's finest work. 

Draco stepped back from the cabinet and the otherworldly shimmer of the beautiful dragons. He had to think. It had been all he could do the other morning not to choke Potter with the damn newspaper. Even now it made his blood boil. 

"Quidditch scores!" Draco paced the length of the room. Harry knew how important Draco's collection was to him. How bloody thick could he be? Draco loved him, but there were times when he despaired of his partners ability to pick up even the most obvious hint. And if he missed the clue in the newspaper, what could he possibly do to make Potter understand? Draco stopped by the large window of their town home, staring out at the small garden. It was filled with flowers that Neville came by and cared for every few weeks. He could ask Hermione what constituted a clue Harry might pick up on, but then decided against it. He loved her, he truly did, but where things like this were concerned she was almost as thick as Harry was; the woman didn't have a conniving bone in her body. And Ron was completely out; he'd just tell him. Draco couldn't really explain why it was so important to him that Harry figure it out on his own, but it was. 

He sighed and crossed his arms. Honestly, how difficult could this be? He shook his head. If you were Harry Potter, apparently _very_ difficult. 

Draco thought about the errands he needed to run that morning; he needed to go to the apothecary, and then drop three sets of his work robes at the wizarding specialty embroidery shop on Diagon Alley. St Mungo's bought the robes for the members of their senior staff, then insisted that names and titles were added to the front but wouldn't pay for the work to be done. It irritated Draco no end, but he'd worn the old ones out of principle until they were quite threadbare and he couldn't put this off any longer. He turned away from the window and had started up the stairs to fetch the new ones from their wardrobe when a startling thought made him stop and rush back into the kitchen. Harry had binned the paper from the day before yesterday, but after he'd left for the Ministry Draco had pulled it out again. And if he wasn't wrong…

He opened a bottom drawer that they used for bits and bobs and pulled out the paper, and yes, right there next to the article about Cripnock's Dragons was an advertisement for McMillian's Fine Embroidery. 'Personalising items for a new baby, Quidditch Team Jerseys and uniforms of all kinds'. Smiling slowly, Draco thought he might have just hit upon the perfect plan. 

Two days later, he left a note, along with the torn out page of the newspaper, on their kitchen table. 

'Harry,' he wrote, 'Please pick up my work robes from McMillian's this afternoon. I'm working a mid-shift and then have a meeting with department heads at four, and need to have them in time for our annual inspection tomorrow. The address is right here on the front page in the advert in the lower right-hand corner, next to the article about the crystal dragons.  
Thank you!  
Draco'.

He read it over several times, thinking it was so blatantly obvious he might as well have written, 

'Dunderhead; go buy me the blue dragon mother with white baby sculpture'. He hadn't been quite that blunt, and at least this way, Harry had the information without it being too terribly insulting. Draco hoped.

Draco arrived home after seven that night. He really did have a meeting with the departmental heads that ran ridiculously long and by the time he walked through the Floo and into the kitchen, he was very cranky. The kitchen was spotless, and there was a plate on the table under a stasis charm holding a generous helping of chicken fettuccine alfredo with broccoli and garlic bread. It was a very thoughtful gesture on Harry's part, and Draco began to hope that just maybe the less than subtle reminder that his birthday was just around the corner had been the way to go after all. 

As he started up the narrow stairs to their bedroom, he heard the sound of the shower running in their en suite. Smiling slowly, he unbuttoned the top of his ratty work robe. When he crossed the threshold into their room, he saw his new pale blue robes hanging on the door of his armoire, encased in a shimmering protective spell. 'Draco Malfoy, Pharmaceutical Supervisor' was embroidered in dark blue thread on the right breast pocket. Encouraged Harry had remembered to pick them up, and that the address for the auction house handling the sculptures was _right there_ , maybe his efforts had been successful after all. He stripped out of his robe and crossed to put it in the laundry hamper, before deciding the bin was probably a better choice for it. Inhaling deeply of the soap and shampoo scented steam that rolled out of the bath, he smiled. Maybe he'd join Harry in the shower, which might lead to a very enjoyable evening. The smile froze on his face as he saw what was lying on top of the small rubbish bin in the corner.

It was the page of the newspaper featuring the article about the sculptures, slightly crumpled as if it had been shoved in Harry's pocket. The bin was next to Harry's dresser. There was a paper on top of it, with 'ideas for Draco's birthday' written in Harry's messy handwriting. He'd listed, 'reservation for Cordonelli's', and 'VIP tickets to the London season of the symphony', and 'exotic chocolate of the month club' from Honeydukes. Honestly, most years he'd have been thrilled with any of them; it showed that Harry actually did know him quite well. But this year all it did was make Draco want to grab his partner and shake him. The hint for what he really wanted was so obvious a blind Niffler could have seen it; why couldn't Harry? 

Draco heard a sound behind him, and he turned. He hadn't noticed the shower shutting off but it clearly had, because Harry was coming out of the bath, a towel around his narrow hips, briskly drying his hair with another. He was a sight, droplets of water dripping down his tanned chest, arms over his head, muscles flexing as he scrubbed the terrycloth over his hair. He dropped his arms and when he saw Draco, he gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Hey.”

“Hello,” Draco answered, pushing down his exasperation and disappointment. It really was almost impossible to stay angry at an all but naked Harry with that body, and that smile.

“I got your robes,” Harry said, and he was clearly so proud of himself Draco couldn't tell him he thought he was an idiot. 

“So you did.” After that, Draco was distracted by Harry's lovely body and a very nice welcome home kiss. 

"I could help you out of the rest of these dirty things," Harry said, pulling Draco close. 

Draco sighed. "Seriously, Potter? Is that the best line you can come up with?"

Harry laughed. "It would have been worse if I'd ended that sentence with _and help you slip into me._ "

Draco stared at him for nearly ten full seconds before he just shook his head and tried to turn away. 

"Draco," Harry said, dropping the towel from his hips. "Come here."

Draco shook his head. "I refuse to shag someone who would use such a patently ridiculous come-on line."

"Okay, it was a bad line." Harry grabbed Draco's hand to keep him from walking away. "But admit it; you still want my arse."

Draco knew he couldn't lie about that with a straight face. "Just admitting that I want your arse doesn't mean you're any less pathetic."

"If I admit that, will you kiss me?"

Harry's smile was winsome.

"Oh, you are a mess." But Draco did lean in and kiss him, and when Harry wrapped his arms around his waist, Draco didn't protest. Much.

oo00oo

Three days later, Draco hurried home from work, anticipation thrumming through his veins. Finally, finally, he believed he had a way to get through to his adorable, apparently thick, lover.

That morning, the catalogue for the auction arrived from Christie's. Christie's was a famous auction house, even for Muggles, but it was founded in 1766 by a wizard named James Christie. He had decided that if he could do it for the well-heeled Wizarding population, he could do it for Muggles, too. Honestly, the family of the American who owned Cripnock's complete collection made a very smart decision to involve Christie's; only through such a large, well known house could the pieces be handled properly, and the name alone guaranteed honesty.

They'd also produced a beautiful catalogue full of large colour photographs of each sculpture, Draco spent his lunch hour poring over each one, making himself hold off in suspense to get to Lot 121, "Blue Dragon Mother with White Baby". He turned the page, and nearly wept when he saw _photo not available at time of printing_. He'd almost recovered from his disappointment when he formulated his newest idea in his quest for Harry to give him the perfect gift. 

Putting his plan in place for Harry to notice the catalogue, Draco was certain Harry would have to at least be curious if Draco put it right in front of him on their tea table. They had a ritual on Wednesday nights; they met in their sitting room with their adult beverage of choice, with whatever sporting event Harry wanted to watch on the telly, and decided who they called for take away.

Tonight, if Draco wasn't mistaken, it was Rugby, Coventry playing Rosslyn Park. At least the Rugby players were hot, with their thighs like tree trunks and their broad shoulders. It was supposed to rain tonight, too, which meant there would be mud. For some reason, Draco found the players even sexier with their faces streaked with mud. Harry told him that made him a bit of a kink freak, but he liked it.

Draco left St Mungo's early, hurrying to the nearest Apparition point. He popped into their front hall, which really wasn't supposed to be done but he didn't care. He needed to get home before Harry did. It was crucial he got the living room tea table cleaned off so that the only piece of post in the middle of the heavy mahogany top was the auction house catalogue.

Draco had actually owned some lovely Victorian, cherrywood pieces when they'd moved in together, but it had become obvious within the first few weeks that they wouldn't survive Harry's feet being on them several nights a week. He'd put them into storage, and they'd purchased the dark, heavy thing that sat there now. Even Harry couldn't destroy it with his heavy Auror boots all over it.

Four o'clock sounded from the grandfather clock at the back of the hall as he strode purposefully through it. He stopped when he entered the living room, wondering just how they'd allowed it to become so…well, filthy. There was the debris of their week scattered across the large table that sat in front of their black leather sofa. Post, mostly the sort that went straight in the bin, and a box that contained the crumbs of Molly Weasley's best chocolate chip cookies. She was convinced they were both vastly underweight and destined to die of starvation, and she sent sweets home with them after every Sunday dinner. It was one of the more surreal things in Draco's life, that he ate Sunday meals at the Burrow. Fortunately, Molly and Arthur were incredibly forgiving people, and their brood followed suit. And of course, they loved Harry. Unfortunately, it also meant Draco had to hit the gym at St Mungo's every morning before his shift began. But for Molly's cooking, he'd deal with it. 

Walking around the room Draco made a sound of disgust; he loved Harry, but the man was a slob. Two sets of Auror robes were tossed over the back of the sofa, and he'd emptied his pockets on the tea table at least once because there were assorted coins littered across it, the 'goldenrod copy' of at least four Auror reports, and cookie crumbs added in. 

He was tempted to just vanish the lot but knew Harry would pitch a fit if he did, so he carefully sent the coins to a jar Harry kept on his dresser, sent the robes to the hamper, and the reports to pile neatly on top of nearly fifty just like it on the corner of his desk. Then, using one of the housekeeping charms Molly taught him, he waved his wand and dusted and polished every piece of furniture in the room.

He then did a vacuuming spell, because the oriental carpet on the floor was at least two hundred years old and needed to be cared for in a better manner than they had been doing. Although it had managed to survive Weasley and Harry's shared pizza nights over the occasional Quidditch match.

By the time he was done the room carried a hint of lemon and shined like a new Sickle. The top of the old wooden table gleamed, and when he laid the Christie's catalogue on top of it, there was no way Harry could miss it. Just to be sure, he opened it to the page where the picture of 'Blue Dragon Mother with White Baby' should have been, lit a fire in the hearth and went to change his clothes.

He was in the kitchen fixing a gin and tonic when he heard Harry arrive via the living room Floo. His heart jumped into his throat, and he had to take a deep breath and concentrate on what he was doing to steady his hands.

"Draco?"

"Kitchen."

He heard Harry tromp down the stairs in his heavy boots and enter their kitchen behind him. He glanced over his shoulder as casually as he could.

"How was your day?" he asked, carefully stirring his drink.

"Shite." Harry came up behind him and dropped a kiss on the back of his neck, his hands settling gently on Draco's shoulders. "A totally pointless stakeout in a barn in Cotswold. I smell like livestock."

As a matter of fact, Draco did catch a whiff of gaminess lingering to him.

He wrinkled his nose. "Well, then take your hands off of my clean jumper and go shower. I'd share almost anything with you, but I'd just as soon not share your stench."

Harry laughed. "Fussy, posh queen."

"Takes one to know one, Auror Potter. Now, go take off those robes. And by the way, there are already two sets needing laundering in the hamper, and I will not do them for you."

Harry gave him a very cute pout, which Draco ignored.

"I'd do it for you," Harry said.

"Yes, you'd throw your stinky red robes in with my light blue work things, and they'd all end up lavender. So please, don't. Now go get a move on before I change all the rules about what we watch on the telly."

Harry looked aghast. "You'd never!"

Draco gave a wicked grin and replied, "I hear there's a new special on about the mystery surrounding Mozart's writing of his Requiem. Did you know that he died at thirty-five, and the requiem was unfinished? Apparently some mystery man turned up at Mozart's home and paid him a large sum of money for a Requiem Mass, but would only give him the money if Mozart agreed to not attempt to find out who his mysterious patron was..."

Harry's eyes had already started to glaze over, and Draco turned his back to hide his grin.

"Fine, fine," Harry said, scowling. "Shower first, laundry second. I'll meet you in the sitting room once the robes are in the washer."

"Good plan," Draco said. "I'll pour your beer for you. Which one do you want?"

"I'll take the Pilsner, but don't bother with a glass; I can drink it from the bottle. I'll decide if I want something different with the food when we decide what to order."

Harry pressed another kiss to the back of Draco's head before leaving to clomp up the stairs, and Draco grinned into his gin and tonic. This was perfect; there was no way his plan could fail.

By the time Harry made it into the sitting room, Draco was sitting on the couch and even had the Rugby match pulled up on the telly. He was posed in the corner, shoes off and long legs pulled up beneath him, Harry's sweating bottle of Pilsner at his elbow on a coaster on one of their side tables. He heard the fourth stair from the bottom creak as it always did, and seconds later Harry was entering the room in his bare feet. His hair was damp and curling, clinging to the tawny skin of his neck. He was wearing a disreputable old Chudley Cannons t-shirt in faded orange, and how in the world anyone could look good in that ghastly colour was impossible to fathom, but Potter managed it. His pyjama pants were a threadbare tartan plaid and just barely clung to his prominent hipbones. He had clearly gone commando, because the old flannel clung to his cock, showing its long, plump curve where it was pressed against his thigh. And he smelled heavenly, all steamy, shampoo and cologne scented, and just looking at him made Draco's pulse pick up and his dick begin to fill. Gods, he was lovely.

"You need a haircut," Draco said, instead of asking if he wanted a good old-fashioned fuck over the arm of the sofa, like he really wanted to.

"I know." Harry ran his hand through the thick mop and the curls clung to his fingers. "I'll see if I can get in to see Jeffrey on Saturday."

"If he can't do it, Paul probably can." Their stylists were a very cute, young gay couple who owned the salon just off the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry shrugged and dropped onto the cushions next to Draco, lifting his feet onto the tea table. He stopped mid-motion and looked around the room.

"You cleaned."

"Someone had to do it," Draco replied with a shrug. "We were about to start growing potatoes on the tea table, there was so much dirt on it."

"You exaggerate."

"Not by much."

He handed Harry his beer, and held his breath, it taking an act of will for him to not look at the glossy catalogue. Harry took the bottle, then leaned in for a kiss.

"Thank you." Harry took a deep drink from his beer, and Draco watched his throat move with appreciation. He had a lovely neck. He had to force himself not to lift his leg and straddle him, pressing into the bulge of his cock right there on the couch. In point of fact, he'd done exactly that more than once. Tonight, however, he couldn't take his eyes off of the short distance between Harry's bare feet and the Christie's catalogue.

It was perhaps all of ten minutes while Harry nursed the beer in his hand and Draco's nerves grew more and more pulled taut, before Harry leaned forward and picked up the catalogue. Draco held his breath as Harry scanned the open pages, his mouth dry as dust. He stared so hard his eyes began to ache. Then, to Draco's utter shock, he flipped the catalogue closed, put it back on the tea table and set his beer on top. Instantly, the damp condensation began to seep into the expensive paper.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, what the bloody fuck!" He lurched forward and snatched up the beer, grabbing the catalogue and rubbing the water off on his slacks. 

"What the hell, Draco? It's just some junk mail."

"Junk mail??? It's a Christie's catalogue!"

Harry looked confused. "So? You get them all the time. What's so special about that one?"

Draco stared at him, caught off guard. "I -- uhm, well -- " There wasn't a thing he could think to say, unless he wanted to just tell the idiot about the dragon sculpture, and he shouldn't have to, damnit. Not with a cabinet full of Cripnock pieces in the room! Not when Harry knew how important those sculptures were to Draco. He looked down at the catalogue, then back up into Harry's waiting face.

"There's nothing special!" he finally managed in a strangled whisper. "It's just -- I haven't even had a chance to finish looking at it yet, and you put your bloody beer on it!"

"Oh, sorry." Harry ran his hand through his thick hair again, frowning. "I just thought with it sitting there by itself after you cleaned, you must've been going through it before I got home."

Draco blinked. "Well, I hadn't," he finally said. "And, I want to. So, I uhm, I'm going to go do that, right now, in the bedroom."

He stood, snatched up his gin and tonic, and stormed toward the door. Honestly, how did the man get dressed by himself in the morning? How could someone so thick be an Auror? Bloody hell, how did he kill a Dark Lord?

"Draco."

He stopped just before he walked out the door and turned, the catalogue clutched to his chest.

"What about the match? Not only that, but what do you want to do for dinner?"

Draco scowled. "I'm not in the mood for telly tonight. And I don't care about dinner. I'm not hungry."

oo00oo

Harry stared after Draco as he stormed up the stairs. Harry knew he should just stop pretending he'd no clue what Draco was up to, but it really was too much fun.

oo00oo

Draco always took a half-day on Friday and he and Pansy would have lunch. Some days they'd meet in Muggle London and other times they'd eat at one or the other's home. Today they were to meet at Draco's. He rushed home and hurried to the kitchen. He wasn't as brilliant a cook as Harry, but he could usually pull something together. Of course, cooking low carb for Pansy was a challenge, but he had a few ideas of what he could whip together.

Until he looked in the fridge. "Fucking buggering hell," he ground out, looking at the five bottles of Pilsner, the bottle of tonic, a jar of olives and four limes. He'd forgotten to send his order to the market. 

He paced around the kitchen. "Well that's it. I'll have to call and cancel," Draco said to the empty room. 

He walked over to the fireplace and knelt before the fire, threw in a handful of Floo powder and called out. "Pansy Parkinson's living room."

When the flames had settled, he stuck his head into the fire but didn’t see his friend in the pale blue room. "Pans! Where are you?"

"Merlin, Draco," she said walking into the room in her bra and panties. 

"Oh fuck, my eyes," Draco wailed, clasping a hand over his face. "Must you trot about _naked_?"

Pansy rolled her eyes and didn't move. "First off, you've seen me in less than this." She looked down at her breasts. "Granted my tits weren't nearly so spectacular in sixth year. And secondly, I was getting changed to come over when you bellowed." She looked at his face. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"We have to cancel," Draco replied, not moving his hand. "I forgot to send my order to the market and unless you want to drink a Pilsner whilst you eat olives, I have nothing to prepare."

"Oh, do lower your hand, you drama queen, I've put a robe on."

Draco peeked between his fingers before he lowered his hand. "I'm sorry, Pans, I'm just not in the mood to go out today. We'll just have to call today a wash."

"Oh tish tosh," she replied smoothly. "I'll give Mimsy some instructions and be over as soon as I'm dressed. She'll prepare something here and pop over to serve it."

Draco nodded, knowing arguing would be pointless. "Fine, I'll leave the Floo open. Come over when you have real clothing on."

Standing slowly, Draco walked to the table. He shook his head at the mess Potter had left after his hurried breakfast. There was a knife with jam on it, along with enough toast crumbs to make another slice. He cast a quick cleaning charm and left it working while he went to find a tablecloth and linen napkins. It never ceased to amaze Draco that he'd fallen for a complete slob. A sometimes dense, generally dishevelled and always so fucking desirable man, and Draco was completely arse over tit about him. 

He'd just come in from gathering some flowers from the garden when Draco heard the Floo woosh and saw Pansy step through, thankfully fully clothed. Grabbing the vase he'd set in the sink, he put the flowers inside and placed it in the centre of the table. 

Pansy stopped and did a quick twirl. "Better?" she said with a grin. Her sapphire cashmere sweater had a scoop-neck that showcased her _girls_ , but that was nothing new for her attire.

"Yes, I can eat without feeling the need to cover my eyes through the entire meal. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Mimsy will be here shortly with food, but in the mean-time I thought we could start with this." She held up a chilled bottle of Pol Roger. 

Draco rolled his eyes. "Been stealing from your mother's wine cellar again?"

Pansy batted her eye-lashes. "What Charlie doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Charlotte Parkinson would faint if she knew you called her _Charlie_ in public," Draco said shaking his head. "You know you're a thief but I'll not tattle as long as you're planning on sharing it." He opened a large door on the wall and pulled out two glittering crystal champagne flutes and set them on the table. 

He popped the cork with a complicated spell and poured them each a glass. Draco looked around. "This kitchen is a bit understated for the champagne we're drinking."

Pansy laughed. "Darling, if it's good enough for the Queen at Buckingham Palace, it's good enough for the Queen--"

Draco glared. "Finish that sentence, and I will hurt you."

Fortunately, Mimsy chose that exact moment to pop into the room with a large basket. Pansy smiled.

"Thank you, Mimsy. If you'll just set the food on the table. Yes, that one is for me. The fish for Draco. Now if you'll put the pudding in the fridge you can go. I'll call you when we're finished."

"Thank you, Mimsy," Draco said. 

"I is always happy to be making the food for Master Draco." Mimsy replied with a bow. 

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Suck up," she said to the diminutive elf.

"Master Draco is always being very kind to Mimsy. Unlike some witches I know." Mimsy retorted. 

Draco smirked as she popped out. "Well, there's you told."

Looking down at his plate of Dover sole, Draco realised he was actually hungry. He glanced at Pansy's plate. 

"That seafood linguine looks decadent," Draco said with a lift of one eyebrow. "Not concerned about carbs today, darling?"

"Oh do fuck off, Draco," Pansy replied with a roll of her eyes. "That was bitchy even for you, didn't get laid last night?"

"At least I'm getting laid on a regular basis," Draco tilted his head and gave her a pitying look. "Can you say the same?"

"Well someone certainly pissed in your Chocolate Shreddies this morning." Pansy glowered. "It would serve you well to remember that I know _all_ of your dirty little secrets and precisely where your skeletons are buried."

Draco huffed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Pans. It's just… well you know about my Cripnock collection, right?"

Pansy nodded and took a bite of prawn. "Everyone who knows you knows about your collection, darling. Even Potter, and there's not a single bone in that glorious body that understands collecting. Unless of course it involves that pitiful Quidditch team he supports. You know you really should gently persuade him to follow a better team…"

Draco cut her off with a glare. She merely stopped talking and waved him on with her hand. 

"Back to what I was saying. You know I have all the Cripnock dragons, save the last one he was making when he died."

Pansy tilted her head and raised her eyebrows in response. 

"For fucks sake," Draco huffed. "No one said you couldn't _ever_ speak again!"

"You're such a bitch. Anyway, that last dragon is all but unavailable. You know that," Pansy replied pragmatically. 

"Yes, and if you'd ever let me finish a thought, you'd find out that it's been put up for auction at Christie's."

Pansy's mouth formed a perfect circle. "Oh." She recovered quickly and continued. "So you've contacted Christie's and have authorised them to place your bid as high as necessary."

Draco took a bite of his fish. "Are you quite finished?"

"Don't get pissy just because I figured out your story," Pansy said smugly. 

"Not even close, you bint! There's no pre-sales and no pre-auction _arrangements_ allowed. But that's not the point. The point is Harry is always trying to figure out what to get me for my birthday. So, I thought this year I'd make it easy and leave some ideas." 

"And?" Pansy asked. 

Draco went over his failed attempt with the _Prophet_ article, then the carefully chosen placement of the Christie's catalogue. It didn't help his mood a bit that by the time he was finished, the horrid cow was in tears from laughing so hard.

"Stop it, you bitch, it isn't funny!"

Pansy wiped tears from her cheeks, "Oh, sweetheart. Even you can see that it is. I mean, look around this place. How much of this wonderful kitsch did Potter purchase alone? He'd never know what to pick. Tell me he has an ounce of originality in him. And I don't mean in the bedroom, thank you. I mean, take the Smeg toaster. He wouldn't even know what it was. And frankly, it's pink."

"He likes the toaster," Draco countered.

"It's brilliant. Tell me he didn't bitch about the colour."

Draco winced. "It took a bit of persuasion." 

Pansy arched a brow, her tone dry. "A bit of persuasion."

"Fine," Draco shot back. "It took a brilliant blow job if you must know."

"I suspected nothing less," She replied smugly. "Should I even ask how much _persuasion_ the flamingos required? Or the plants?"

"The flamingos? Let's just say by the time I was finished; he'd have agreed to dancing naked in Diagon Alley. Molly gave him the plants and frankly, he loves them. Succulents or some damn thing. Hardy enough for him to ignore them and not kill them."

"Well that explains their planters." She shook her head. "Not the point. The point is," she gestured with her fork, "if you want this statue, I'm afraid waiting around for His Dimness to figure it out is futile."

Draco dropped his head on the table.

"Darling, just go get it, then tell him it's what he's giving you for your birthday."

"But..." Draco lifted his head and speared his hands through his hair. "I want..."

"You want him to give it to you. Yes, I know." She laid her hand on his arm. "He isn't going to. Now, what's more important, letting Potter fail in this because you're too stubborn, or getting the piece you've only wanted for the last five years?"

Draco let his head fall to the kitchen table again. "I hate it when you're right."

She patted his head. "I know. Now finish your lunch while we discuss a plan for this auction."

oo00oo

Draco dressed with special care the day of the Christie's auction. The establishment was old and venerated within the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and even though he didn't have the kind of money his father had once liked to throw around, he was still a Malfoy. He wore a new set of robes Madame Malkin had made for him, black velvet with jet accents, and his hair artfully tousled in a way that was no doubt causing his father to spin in his grave. That thought amused him as he took one last look at himself, then took his bag of galleons from his armoire and slipped it into his pocket as he set off down the stairs. He needed tea, and he could smell that Harry had started a pot before he left for the Ministry.

The house had been quiet when Draco woke up, the other side of the bed cold. It wasn't uncommon for Harry to go in early; in fact, he seemed to remember Harry saying something about a stake out. Draco hadn't really been listening; he'd been mentally rehearsing his argument for Christie's to allow him to buy the 'Blue Mother Dragon with White Baby' before the auction even started. He thought he might be able to do it; he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen in surprise when he saw Harry sitting at their table, his red Auror jacket over the back of the chair, a cup of tea and plate of toast at his elbow. He looked up, and his eyebrows arched.

"Wow. Look at you." His gaze was appreciative as he looked Draco over from his head to his toes and back up again. "Are those robes new?"

"Uhm, yes, they are." Draco realised that seeing Harry had set him back on his heels. He smoothed his hand over the velvet robes, just to give himself a chance to regain his composure. "I bought them for Andy's birthday party next month." It wasn't a lie, exactly.

"Damn, then I'm going to have to up my game." Harry gave him a roguish smile. "Can't be overshadowed by my date."

Draco rolled his eyes, his poise returning. "Just wear the Auror get up; everyone's always impressed with it."

"Unlike you." Harry smirked as he took a sip from his tea. "I can see it doesn't work for you at all."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Draco walked past him, running his fingers over the leather wand harness that was lying on the table. "I do have a weakness for black leather."

Harry's grin turned wicked. "Is that so?"

He grabbed for Draco hip as he passed, his fingers curling in the velvet. Draco gave him a severe look and slapped his hand.

"Wrinkles." He frowned, smoothing the spot Harry had grabbed.

"Touchy." Harry frowned "Where are you going that you have to be so fancy, anyway?"

Draco kept his back to Harry, pouring himself a cup of tea, 'Why lie?' he thought. Harry wouldn't understand the significance of his errand anyway.

"I'm going to an auction at Christie's."

"Huh. For?"

Now Draco would lie. If Harry couldn't figure it out on his own, he wasn't going to help him.

"Nothing important. Some crystal that's remarkably similar to Mother's, which will give me a complete set of twelve wine glasses. You know I lost four of them." Harry nodded. "We may never entertain like that again, but I'd like to own them, anyway, just in case we ever do eat anything other than take away pizza or curry."

Harry snorted. "Makes sense." 

Draco turned around, irritated in spite of his determination not to be. "And why are you still here, anyway? I thought you had somewhere you had to be this morning."

Harry finished his tea and pushed back his chair. "Stake-out was cancelled, but I have a meeting in ten."

Draco huffed. "Cutting it fine, aren't you?"

Harry grinned at him as he slipped into the short Auror jacket, buttoning it slowly. "A bit. But they won't start without me."

"There's that ego I'm so fond of." Draco watched Harry slip into the wand harness, the leather fitting perfectly over his broad chest, the black trousers snug on his hips. He must've polished his boots in the last day or two because they gleamed in the early morning light. Merlin, he was lovely to look at and Draco's prick twitched in response.

Harry slipped his wand into the harness and crossed to Draco with a slow smile. "Will you be home for dinner?"

"Where else would I be?"

Harry gave him a steady look. "Have I done something to hack you off?"

Draco blinked. "No. I just... didn't sleep terribly well."

"Well, you'd never know it to look at you." Harry leaned in and covered Draco's mouth with his, kissing him long enough that Draco lost his stiffness and finally sighed into the kiss. He felt Harry's smile when his hand slipped between them and he palmed Draco's cock, finding him half hard. "You do like the leather, don't you?"

Draco pushed him away. "Wrinkles," he scolded. "Idiot."

Harry kissed him again, smile firmly in place, before he turned and crossed to their Floo. He was still giving Draco that same, saucy grin when he disappeared in the flames.

oo00oo

Draco had known Gunther Benholdt, the wizard in charge of the magical world's Christie's auctions, since he was ten years old. His father had taken him to an auction for some book he'd been coveting for his library, and he watched in awe as Lucius convinced the man that selling it to him without putting it out for public consumption was a good idea. There had been very little about his father that Draco admired by the time the war was over, but he hoped he could channel some of that cool superiority today.

When he arrived at the auction house, the staff was bustling about in their lavender Christie's robes, but there were very few members of the public milling about. It was still two hours until the auction was scheduled to start, and he'd arrived this early on purpose. There were pedestals placed around the large room, and he had to force himself to approach the front of the room and not go and ogle the Cripnock sculptures already on display. He didn't see 'Blue Mother with White Baby', besides he knew it would be held in the back and not out on display. One of the assistants, an attractive young woman with thick dark hair, noticed him and came to him with flattering speed and attention.

"Mr Malfoy. Are you joining us today?"

"Possibly," he answered casually. "Is Gunther about?"

"I believe he's in the back. Would you like me to find him for you?"

"Please." He looked around with as much nonchalance as he could manage.

"Baxter," she said to a young man hovering near her elbow, "bring Mr Malfoy some tea?" She looked to Draco for approval.

"Lovely," he answered, although he doubted he could manage to drink it. What he'd had earlier was hovering near the back of his throat, making him feel faintly ill.

It was nearly fifteen minutes before the young woman, 'Brooke' according to her Christie's badge, returned with Gunther. He was an ancient man, slightly bent, his grey beard reaching to his waist. He gave Draco a toothy smile.

"Draco," he offered his hand, "I thought you might be joining us today. How are you?"

"I'm well, Gunther, thank you."

"How can I help you?"

Draco looked around the room again, his eyes moving over the sculptures on display. "Well, you know how much I love Cripnock's work."

"Your mother instilled a love for fine things in you early." He smiled faintly. "How she would have loved this."

Draco nodded in agreement.

"Yes, she would have. This must be a real coup for Christie's."

The old man's eyes twinkled. "Indeed."

The young man finally arrived with Draco's tea, and he took a sip to be polite. It was excellent, but one sip was all he could manage. His heart was racing, and he found he couldn't continue with the casual chit chat any longer.

"Gunther, surely you must know what I'm here for."

"Well, I wondered, actually, Draco. You've never been one to buy duplicates."

Assuming Gunther was being sly, Draco straightened and lifted his chin. "That is correct. But you know very well that you have one Cripnock sculpture for sale that I don't already own. The one he finished just before his death; I want 'Blue Mother Dragon with White Baby' Gunther, and I'm prepared to pay for it as long as you don't attempt to rob me blind."

Gunther stared at him, blinking slowly, as if trying to gather himself. Draco felt a shiver of alarm.

"Draco, I..." Gunther took a deep breath. "I am sorry, old friend, but 'Blue Dragon Mother with White Baby' was removed from the auction by the family yesterday. They've decided not to have Christie's auction that particular piece with the rest."

Draco stared at him, feeling as if the floor had shifted beneath his feet. All of the blood had apparently drained from his head, leaving him without the ability to speak. He stared at Gunther, unable to form a word.

"I know this is a shock," Gunther said, lightly taking Draco's arm. "That piece would complete your collection."

"But... why?" Draco finally managed. "It's in the catalogue. There's no picture, but it's listed..."

"I know, and I apologise. We simply didn't have the time to remove it on such short notice. And I have no idea what changed their minds," he said kindly. "Sentimentality, perhaps? More likely they're going to auction it separately, after they've had a chance to build more interest. I only know that they've pulled it from us, much to my disappointment. I would have loved to see it, at least." Another of the aides was waving at Gunther from the far corner of the room, and he touched Draco's shoulder gently. "I truly am sorry. Brooke," he turned to the young woman, who was watching their conversation with sympathy, "perhaps Draco would prefer a glass of wine instead of tea. It's early, but sometimes needs must, yes?"

Draco shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll just... I believe I'll go now." His words faded as he turned away.

Later, he wouldn't even remember Apparating home.

oo00oo

Draco stumbled as he landed in the living room. He didn't try to right himself; he just sank to the floor. The room was silent but for his ragged breathing. It was gone. Just like that, he thought. All his plans and dreams…gone. Faintly, as if from miles away, he heard someone calling. There was a whoosh of something in the background and then the sound of footsteps coming up from the kitchen.

"Merlin's saggy balls, Draco," Pansy said brushing soot off her trousers. "I've been trying to get you to answer me for nearly ten minutes. Are you so busy admiring…" Her words stopped the moment she saw Draco in a jumble of robes on the floor. She rushed across the room, dropping to her knees at his side. "Oh god, oh fuck! What happened? Is it Harry? Has he been hurt?" She took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. "Talk to me, dammit!"

"Gone, Pans. All my plans, all my dreams gone," he snapped his fingers, "like that."

Pansy gasped and began to cry. "Oh Draco! No! It can't be. They have to be wrong." She pulled Draco close and wept on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. What can I do, honey? Who should I call?" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, she had to be strong for her dearest friend. She could do this for him.

She stood, taking Draco by the arm. "Come on, Draco. Stand up. Let's get you on the couch. You can't just sit on the floor." She struggled, but finally managed to get Draco onto the couch. She sat next to him, rubbing his back gently, trying to find the right words. 

"Draco, I'm so sorry. Can you tell me what they said? How he was…how it happened?" She shook her head. "I just can't believe it, not Harry." She sniffled and wiped a tear as it rolled down her cheek. 

Draco turned and looked at her, his eyes wide, mouth dropping open. "Harry? What the fuck are you on about?"

Pansy furrowed her brow. "It's obvious something horrible has happened to him. What else could have happened that would bring about all these histrionics?"

"The statue. The Cripnock statue I wanted. The owners pulled it from the auction today," Draco cried out. 

"You," Pansy's tone was low and dangerous, "were sitting on the floor as if your world had ended." She inhaled deeply. "Over a fucking statue?"

Draco, apparently missing the fury in Pansy's eyes, wailed, "I never even got to see it! Don't you understand?"

"I understand, you absolute shagging wanker of a piss-brain." She cuffed him on the side of his head. "You total bleeding bastard! You're a fucking menace!" She hit him again, this time on the shoulder. "I thought. Harry. Had been wounded. Or worse. Killed." She punctuated every few words with another punch to his body. 

Draco jumped up, attempting to fend off her blows. "You're a fucking lunatic, Parkinson. I never said a word about Harry."

Her breath was coming fast and hard. "You're sitting in the shagging dark. On the floor, I might add, wearing robes that cost Merlin knows how much because some trinket got sold out from under you??"

Draco winced, when said like that it did sound a bit…well…over the top. Even for him, still he tried to justify himself. "But Pans…"

She held her hand out in front of her. "Seriously, Draco. Stop. Now. I'm going to go home, drink several very large, very stiff G & T's and if I don't wake with a hangover… Well then I might possibly consider speaking to you again." She pulled out her wand, turned on the spot and disappeared with a crack.

oo00oo

After Pansy left, Draco sat on the couch staring into the darkened fireplace. He knew he should go up and change his clothes; the robes he was wearing were new and ridiculously expensive and ordinarily that's what he'd be dwelling on. Tonight, he simply couldn't bring himself to give a rat's arse. Absently he rubbed his fingers over the spot where Pansy had smacked him. Rationally he knew he'd deserved it; he supposed he had perhaps overreacted a bit. But every time the thought went through his mind, he pushed back against it. He had a right to be upset, a right to be a bit over the top. It wasn't like he was just a stamp collector or something. Cripnock's figurines had been a part of his life since his birth. His mother bought the first before he was born, and the only one he didn't have, had never even seen, was now out of his reach. It would probably never be available again. Was he wrong to be upset about that? He didn't think so.

He sat motionless on the couch as the day faded. The sun set and the inside of the townhouse darkened, and he still didn't move. He didn't have the will. He was emotionally exhausted. He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't disappointed, but Pansy had made him think. And frankly, he wasn't sure he appreciated it. He wanted to feel sorry for himself, damnit. He sighed deeply.

He heard the 'whoosh' of the fireplace downstairs in the kitchen, and glanced at the clock on the mantel, surprised to realise it was already after nine pm. Harry told him he was going to run late tonight, but he hadn't thought about those words since Harry left that morning.

Well, that explained why his stomach was complaining; he hadn't eaten since dinner the night before. He'd been too nervous that morning, and he hadn't even thought about it all day. Perhaps Pansy had a point about his misplaced histrionics. It was his night to take care of dinner, and he hadn't even given it a thought.

"Draco?" Harry called out from their darkened kitchen. The light downstairs flipped on, and he could almost predict what Harry was doing without even seeing it. First he'd removed his robes; yes, there was the sound of the chair legs on the flag stones as he tossed his red jacket over it. He heard him open the refrigerator, heard the cap from his beer as he tossed it in the bin. "Draco, where are you?"

Draco knew he should answer him, but he didn't. He leaned his elbow on the arm of the couch and rested his chin on his hand with another sigh. He heard the sound of Harry coming up the stairs, his boots loud on the wooden treads. He started to enter the sitting room, but stopped just inside the door.

"Draco? Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Draco tried to think of an answer that wouldn't sound ridiculous. He couldn't come up with even one.

"Draco?"

Harry stepped into the room and flicked on the light on the small end table at his side, and Draco flinched at its brightness. "What's going on?"

Draco looked up at him, noted the concern on his handsome face. He sighed. "Bad day," he murmured with about all of the energy he could muster. Harry came to him and sat next to him on the sofa.

"Bad day, why?"

Draco shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I should go change my clothes."

"No, you shouldn't. You've had them on all day; it won't kill you to keep them on for a few more minutes. Now, talk to me."

Draco looked away from Harry's piercing green eyes.

"Pansy and I -- had a bit of a falling out, I guess you could say."

"Is she all right?"

"She's fine." Draco rubbed the spot she'd smacked on the back of his head. "I, on the other hand, will no doubt have bruises tomorrow." It was getting easier to talk as he did it, and he rested his head on the back of the sofa. "I apparently overreacted to something -- "

Harry gave him a slow smile. "You? Say it isn't true."

"You are not helping, and it truly has been an awful day, regardless of my tendency towards drama."

Harry's smile faded immediately. He reached out and took Draco's hand, linking their fingers. "Talk to me."

Draco looked down at the joined hands, so different in shape, in shade. Draco's hand was pale, his fingers long and slender. Harry's hand was squarer, his nails short, the tone of his skin darker. He no longer chewed his fingernails; at least Draco had managed to nag him out of that.

"You'll think it's dumb."

Harry squeezed his hand. "Nothing that's upset you this much could be dumb."

Draco rolled his head onto Harry's shoulder. "Thank you for that." He sighed. "You know I went to Christie's for an auction this morning."

"Umm hmm." Harry nodded against Draco's hair.

"Well, it was actually for a private collection of the Goblin Cripnock's work, including his last piece. There were only five cast at the time of his death, and I've tried for years to get my hands on one." He paused, rubbing his thumb over Harry's knuckles. "There was a copy of 'Blue Mother Dragon with White Baby' listed in the catalogue, you know, the one you used for a coaster."

Harry hummed. He was still, listening intently.

"I went in early to talk to Gunther about it, to maybe convince him to sell it to me before the auction began." Draco sighed against the red wool of Harry's coat. "It had already been pulled. Apparently, the family decided not to sell it."

"Oh," Harry said softly. "That would be a disappointment."

"Mother started my collection before I was born. It's the only piece I don't have. I've never even seen it. There are no quality photos, and it's never been displayed."

Harry was clearly listening intently. "And this caused you to have a falling out with Pansy, how?"

Draco squirmed a bit awkwardly.

"She... thought I was being a bit melodramatic over the fact it was unavailable."

"Hmm." Harry squeezed his hand. "Were you?"

Draco grimaced. "Maybe a bit, yeah." He felt his face heat. "Okay, probably more than a bit," he amended. "But I was so disappointed." 

Harry let go of Draco's hand and lifted his arm around his shoulders, pulling Draco closer against his side. "Not to mention your idiot boyfriend couldn't seem to take a hint."

Draco stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."

Harry leaned into the overstuffed back of the sofa, pulling Draco along with him. He chuckled softly. "Draco, I love you, but subtle you are not."

Draco turned to look at him. "I beg your pardon. I'm very subtle." 

"You're about as subtle as a bludger to the head." Harry grinned at Draco's outraged expression. "Let's see; first there was the newspaper over breakfast, then the address for the robe shop, which conveniently was next to the article about the auction at Christies…should I continue?"

Draco's mouth dropped open and he leaned back to stare at Harry, outraged.

"You knew," he said. Harry nodded.

"Oh, you... complete and total wanker," Draco fumed. "You let me make an utter tit of myself, and you never said a word."

"Draco," Harry said softly. "Allow me to do something now, before you make an utter tit of yourself once again, all right?"

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Harry pulled away from him, then kissed him softly. "Wait here for me?"

"I..." Draco huffed, then sighed deeply. "Fine."

He crossed his arms in irritation as Harry walked away from him and into his study, across the hall. Draco heard some furtive noises, then heard the sound of Harry's heavy boots on the hardwood floors as he came back. He was holding an elaborately wrapped gift, the paper a gleaming midnight blue, the ribbons and bow a delicate fairy-made silver mesh dotted with rhinestones. It was a beautiful gift, and Harry set it down on the tea table.

"Happy Birthday," he said softly. Draco looked between Harry and the gift.

"My birthday isn't until Friday."

"I know," Harry responded. "I think now is the right time for this one, though. Go ahead; open it."

Draco looked at him, for some reason almost afraid to touch the gift. But being, well, himself, he pulled on the bow and it pulled free with barely a tug. The paper unfolded itself from around the gift and then disappeared. Draco gave Harry a look.

"Show off."

Harry grinned. "I know you hate the mess. We've been together long enough that I take some of what you bitch about to heart."

"He listens to that," he muttered, studying the plain brown cardboard box left on the table in front of him. There was nothing on it, no print to indicate what it was, nothing. Draco bit his lip, and looked at his partner.

"So, what? No vanishing box spell to go with the gift-wrap?"

Harry laughed. "Oh, no. Now, we're down to the good part."

"This better not be something sensible."

Harry didn't say a word; he just watched him with an enigmatic expression that made Draco nervous. But not so nervous he wouldn't open it.

He slipped his fingers under the flap and pulled it free, took a deep breath, and folded it back. Then lost all of the air in his lungs on a startled gasp when the box did, in fact, slowly disappear from around the gift until all that was sitting on the tea table was an exquisite sculpture of an elegant, rich blue mother dragon, her white baby with its iridescent wings curled against her side. He stared at it, dumbstruck, not quite able to believe the proof of his eyes. Hand trembling, he reached forward to touch it.

It was real; Cripnock's final work, the stunning 'Blue Mother Dragon with White Baby' sat on his table. Harry had got it for him, and after all of his manoeuvring and hints and silliness, he wasn't sure he deserved it.

"How..."

"I contacted the family of the American collector and well," he gave Draco an almost shy smile, "made them an offer they couldn't refuse. And possibly tossed my name around a bit."

"But you hate to use your fame. Why?"

"You should know by now there's not much on this earth I wouldn't do to make you happy, Draco. But maybe this shows you." Harry's voice was tender and filled with love. 

"How much... no, don't tell me. I don't want to know." He leaned forward and studied the piece carefully. The wings were almost clear, with a soft pearlescence that made them glow. They looked like they were a heartbeat away from flapping. The baby's scales were softer than the mother's, which were clearly etched along her back and neck and head. But primarily, what made his heart swell and his breath catch, and his eyes sting with unshed tears, was the look on her face as she cuddled her baby close and looked down on him. He knew that expression well; the love, the care, the protectiveness. He'd grown up seeing that very expression in his mother's eyes.

He hadn't meant to cry. In fact, he'd been bound and determined not to. But it was the entirely human look on the mother dragon's face that did him in, the memories of his mother. His vision blurred as the tears spilled over and down his cheeks.

"Draco? Oh, don't cry." Harry's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "If I'd known it was going to make you cry, I wouldn't have bought it." 

"Oh, don't be stupid," Draco said, dashing at the wetness on his cheeks. "I'm crying because..." He wasn't sure he could explain it, so he turned and threw his arms around Harry's neck, burying his face in the collar of his Auror's jacket.

Harry's arms came around him, and he pulled Draco in, holding him tight. "I love you," Harry whispered against his ear.

"You must," Draco laughed raggedly. "I'll never admit I said this, and you'd better not tell anyone on pain of death, but I can be a bit of a pain in the arse."

Harry laughed against the side of his head. "You? Do tell."

"Oh, just shut up and kiss me, will you please?"

Draco leaned back, rubbing beneath his eyes with his fingers, wiping away the dampness. "There; I no longer look like a soggy dishcloth."

Harry's mirth remained, but his laughter faded to a fond smile. He cupped Draco's cheek, his thumb tracing his pointed jaw. "You couldn't look like a soggy dishcloth if you tried."

"Ah, look who's learning to be diplomatic." Draco leaned in, until their lips were inches apart. "I asked you to kiss me, but I won't hang about all evening waiting on you to do it."

"Yes, sir." Harry didn't delay further; he pulled Draco in and covered his lips, gently parting them with his tongue. Draco sighed softly, one of his hands sliding up into Harry's thick hair. He angled his head, and the kiss ripened, deepened. But when Harry started to press forward and to ease him down onto his back, Draco stopped him with a hand in the middle of his chest. Harry stilled, looking down at him. "What?"

"Just, hold that thought." Draco slipped out from beneath him, carefully picking up the sculpture and carrying it across the room. He opened the cabinet with his collection and set it tenderly in the space he'd made for it when he thought he could finesse it out of Gunther at Christie's. There was a spotlight right above it, and the whole of it gleamed with magical light. Once it was secure and the doors closed, Draco gleefully vaulted over the back of the couch, landing next to Harry with a bright smile.

"Now," he said, wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders and pulling him back down. "Where were we?"

Harry began to laugh. "Good to know your priorities are in the right place."

Draco gave him a stern look. "If 'making them an offer they couldn't refuse' means the kind of Galleons I think it did, you should be glad my priorities are right where they are, smart arse. Because I would hate for one of us to kick it off the table when we got... enthusiastic."

Harry leaned in again. "So, are we planning to get that enthusiastic?"

"Do we fuck any other way?"

Harry pretended to think about it. "No, actually. No we don't." He pressed his chest over Draco's, pinning him down, his hand slipping between them and stroking up Draco's long thigh. Draco placed his fingers over Harry's lips just as they would have closed over his.

"Before you distract me utterly by doing, well..." Harry cupped his cock, and Draco gasped, "that," he looked deeply into Harry's eyes, "thank you. And one more thing. Please remind me tomorrow to send Pansy an obscene number of flowers to pave the way before I go to apologise to her."

"Will do and you're welcome," Harry said, his deep voice slipping right down Draco's back and into his balls. "Now I'd prefer you get your mind off Pansy and back on me."

"All right then." Draco gently bit Harry's square jaw before kissing the spot tenderly. "If you insist. Carry on."

finis


End file.
